


De Profundis

by ptycster



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Kent, Drama, M/M, Other, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptycster/pseuds/ptycster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people enjoy playing riddles. And riddles can come in many shapes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Profundis

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [De Profundis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418185) by [Charaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charaa/pseuds/Charaa). 



> The title, De Profundis, refers to Oscar Wilde's De Profundis (Latin: "from the depths"), a letter written by Wilde during his imprisonment in Reading Gaol, to Lord Alfred Douglas.  
> The quotes are from Wilde's various letters and refer to Lord Alfred Douglas.
> 
> Oh, and English is not my native language, so please don't be too critical on me! I'd appreciate your feedback though :-)

‘Ruth Laxton, a student, 20 years old. Worked late, then walked home from Metropolitan University to Shadwell. She was attacked at the junction of Cannon Street Road and Chapman Street. Someone hit her on the head, knocked her out and broke her neck. No signs of sexual assault. No signs of robbery.’ 

Morning coffee from the vending machine tastes like crap. It’s always terrible, any day of week. The coffee taste is a constant, but DI Chandler's and DS Miles's mood is definitely not, and getting worse daily. Seems like the investigation has hit a deadlock.

‘No enemies, no dumped boyfriend. No debts. No alcohol or drugs in her system. No motive. Nothing, sir. Looks like she was struck down by God for her sins,’ Miles snorts. ‘The only key we have is that her scarf is missing. Her mother said she had it on that day. A cheap common scarf, no fancy thing. They sell them by thousand in each M&S.’ 

‘Dig deeper, Miles. Her friends, connections, casual acquaintances—there must be something. Find the damned motive!’

‘Sir, in that neighbourhood, they don't need no fucking motive to break your scull.’ 

*** 

‘...you've got to check this, Guv!’ Miles' voice is loud enough to be heard through the DI's room door. DI's voice isn't, but the angry gestures are clear enough.

The scooter. They must be talking about the scooter. So they've already checked CCTV footage in the area. 

‘This is a standard investigation procedure, sir!’ Miles blazes as Chandler opens the door and looks in Kent’s direction. 

‘DC Kent, would you step in for a moment, please?’ 

***

‘Kent, would you please explain why your scooter was parked in Bigland Street the night Ruth Laxton was killed?’ 

‘I was not alone that night, sir.’ 

‘So you've found someone? 'Bout time,’ Miles grumbles as he stretches in the visitor chair, obviously enjoying a minute of relaxation. 

‘Kent, will she confirm that you were with her?’ 

Take your time. There should be no hesitation, but a hurried answer won’t do either. You must sound natural. 

‘Kent?’ the DI probes. 

‘Yes, sir. He will confirm that, sir.’ 

*** 

An ancient church soars over the emerald sea of grass. The limestone walls glow eerily white in the twilight like an alabaster waterfall. The air is heavy with scents of wet soil, freshly cut grass, and jasmine — intoxicating, almost overpowering, like a vibrant thread in the fabric of twilight. And there is one more fragrance, a subtle and elusive undertone/ Wild narcissi. 

The boy's ivory-white shirt is spotless under a veil of freshly picked narcissi that are scattered all over the alabaster cloth, golden hair and velvet skin. He seems asleep, a tired Hyacinth under a white jasmine tree. 

Ruth’s scarf — the only evidence, the only link to her murder — rests on the bottom of a Hampstead Heath pond, below swans and swimmers. I shouldn't have taken it in the first place but could not resist the temptation. Otherwise, the trial run went perfectly well. All you need to ensure police attention is but one prominent clue, such as a bright yellow scooter under the street light. Then, if you need to get off the hook, just feed them a reasonable explanation, and you are in the clear. Easy.

No one will ever notice that a few sleeping pills are missing from the evidence room. And Rick... He will never admit that he blacked out for an hour that night. “Emerson was with me all night,” that's what he will tell them. 

This does not mean, however, that caution may be thrown aside. Ruth was only a prelude, a preparation. But this time, it’s for real. 

A gust of wind sends a flurry of petals dancing in the air, waltzing with tiny droplets of morning dew. A lock of golden hair slides from the dead boy's brow to his temple, letting loose a few petals tangled in soft curls. He’s so beautiful, my Hyacinth... 

Everything is sparking like a jewel box embellished with gems: pearl strings of dew clinging to jasmine flowers; garnet chips of dark drops of blood filling the narcissi bells.

No excessive touches, no rough strokes. Dr Llewellyn will have a hard job identifying the poison.

Blood stains the corners of a business card propped against the narcissi flowers. Each corner is inserted precisely 3 millimeters deep into a flower bell. In the center, written in exquisite golden letters, “He is quite like a narcissus - so white and gold… he lies like a hyacinth on the sofa and I worship him.” The next card – the one that will be placed on the next body —will be even more laconic: “White narcissus in an unmown field”. 

This is my letter, my confession to you, Detective Inspector. How many chapters will there be? You decide. 

You will solve my riddle, sir. I know you will. You know classic literature so well. 

And I… I will be the case of your life, Detective Inspector, since I have failed to become anything else for you.


End file.
